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CHAPTER 16

Thinking About Dreams

      WHEN LUCY woke, she was alone.

      She'd expected that, of course, and yet she cried for him a little, alone in her empty bed.

      Then she got up and got dressed. The snow had stopped during the night, it had warmed up and the sun was coming up, promising a bright, fair day.

      When she went in the living room she saw that a lamp was burning; the power had come on again in the night.

      The afghan was neatly folded over the arm of the sofa, there was nobody in the kitchen, and there was no guitar standing in the corner.

      Lucy put on water and set the table. She set the kitchen clock. It was 6:19 A.M.

      Once breakfast was started, she went in to get Uncle Bob up. "Morning," she said as she approached his bed. "You ready to wake up now?"

      Uncle Bob stirred and sighed a little bit.

      "Snow's about gone, and it looks like it's going to be warmer weather. And the power's on," she said, leaning over him. "You'll feel better today."

      He snuggled deeper into the bed. "Aw, I want to sleep some more. Don't fuss me yet." And she looked down at him, he looked so old and frail that she decided to let him enjoy his dream a while longer.

      Back in the hall, the house was very still.

      When Lucy checked upstairs, she found both Normalade and Baby were snoozing peacefully in the big bed, and it seemed a pity to wake them up, especially the baby. So she tiptoed back downstairs to the warm kitchen, where she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to drink it by herself.

      Well, now she couldn't avoid it any more. She had been dreading it. Trying to postpone it by waking everybody up, but now she couldn't stall any longer. She had to think about last night. Really, she'd been thinking of nothing else since she opened her eyes.

      Lucy pushed her cup away, and then said to herself, very coldly and calmly, "Last night was just absolutely lovely, but I have to look at what I've done: I've gone and jumped in bed with a stranger."

      After a lifetime of minding her manners, and doing what she was told, and being responsible, she'd thrown it all away in one night. On a man who'd never marry her. Not even somebody she'd want to marry, for that matter. On a stranger who hadn't wooed her, or said a word to tempt her. He'd just held out his arms, and she'd flung herself right into them.

      She thought of all the things people said about women who did that: "They'll never respect you, afterwards." And, "You'll never be able to get a good man." And the worst thing: "They always tell."

      And, as he had no earthly reason for him not to tell, from now on, behind her back, they would be saying, "You know what she is . . ."

      She got up and poured herself some more coffee. "Well, dammit, why should they care. I'm almost twenty-eight years old. In a few years I'll be thirty. And as for getting a man — I've never had an offer anyway, bad or good." Except Tagg, of course, and that was nothing serious.

      She sat down again. It was stupid to get so worked up. People went to bed together all the time. Lived together for years without getting married. It was not as if she was seventeen, doing it on the steps of the high school gym. Or in the back of somebody's pickup. People went to bed together all the time. Everybody did. With everybody.

      But I don't.

      I'm different.

      A picture formed in her mind of Gallatin, holding out his arms to her and she felt herself melting and . . .

      "Stop that!"

      She said it out loud. Sternly. "Just you stop all this. This is not TV, it's a small town, and — and there's consequences."

      Bertie would hear about it, and he'd laugh and tell Clive. After that, he'd tell Ricky and Cal Arthur. And after that Chuckie and Dub Brewster would hear about it, and . . . they'd look at her like they knew about her.

      And Miss Peaches would hear. And Mrs. Arthur. And what would Swan think? Lucy shuddered. And Normalade.

      And Tom Tagg.

      Staring into her cold coffee, she began thinking about Tagg. He'd be especially disappointed in her. And he'd be hurt. And he'd have reason, maybe. Because of that time they'd —

      She thought about when she and Tagg had gone to the Christmas Dance in high school. It was . . . it was the night Mama got so terribly sick again, just before she died.

      That was the last time she was ever out with Tagg. Or with anyone. That was a long time ago. . . .

      Rooster came in and hobbled over to the stove and lay down against it. She gave him a saucer of milk and petted him, but he only groaned. He felt the cold as much as Uncle Bob did, poor old dog, though he never complained.

      . . . They'd thought Mama was going to get well again. And Uncle Bob had agreed that Lucy could go to the dance, since Tagg had asked him so politely. She'd had on a yellow organdy dress with a lovely wide skirt. And Tagg had brought her a yellow rose.

      He'd been so sweet that night. Told silly jokes, and danced with her every dance and . . . looked at her. They'd gone off and sat on the steps of the Gym together, listening to the music. The night had been chilly, and first he took off his suit jacket and put it around her, and then he'd put his arms around her. And then . . .

      But when they came home at last, Mama had been worse again, and there'd been that terrible ride to the hospital. And after that . . . she had never worn that pretty dress again. She hadn't finished her school year, because there had been so much to attend to at home. And after Mama died, Lucy had gone to work full time.

      Whatever happened to that yellow rose?

      What had become of the young woman she had been that night? The one who had thought she was going to have a whole life full of sweetness.

      Lucy sat there remembering how Tagg had kissed her again and again. She'd been shaking, not wanting to let go of him; she'd cried for him never to leave her. And he'd put his warm arms around her. His strong arms . . .

      And then they had . . .

      Suddenly Lucy sat up straight. Wait a minute.

      Remembering and remembering this way, she suddenly had the startled feeling that she was not quite certain . . . what really had happened last night. Because, really, now that she really thought about it, was she truly, exactly remembering Gallatin's arms around her?

      Because remembering just how Tagg had held her that night — what a strange thought. It was like the same memory!

      Think about this, Lucy. How could there have been a layer of snow that covered all the floors inside the house?

      She sat motionless, staring into her empty cup. Had she only —

      Surely not. And yet . . . could all that lovely stuff with Gallatin — could it have only been a dream?

      She looked around the kitchen. "The afghan was folded up again. I had washed the dishes and put them all away."

      Then she thought: "His truck would have left tracks in the snow." But when she ran outside, all over the yard the snow was melting in the sun, and every time she put her foot down, the snow vanished, and left a gooey mud-footprint instead. She made it through the mud as far as the barn, but beyond the snowy shadow of the house, the yard and driveway were like one sea of chocolate pudding, and she couldn't tell whether the gleaming ruts were new or old.

      One thing, though, there was no sign of a pickup in the barn.

      Lucy stood still in the cold. She looked into the desert around her, and up at the immense arch of incandescent blue above. She looked down at her tennis shoes, which were now caked deep with mud. Where did the dream leave off? Had it been real — and sweet as the sweetest dream? Or had she, out of her own longings, conjured up a dream-lover?

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